


You shall not covet anything that is your neighbor's

by Mikaeru



Series: The Ten Commandments [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, F/M, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sexual Roleplay, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Spanking, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering, sugarbaby!Aziraphale, sugarmommy!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: What Aziraphale wants, Aziraphale gets. Usually because Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Ten Commandments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645069
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69





	You shall not covet anything that is your neighbor's

**Author's Note:**

> Second one in this outrageously silly series! This is so embarassing!! As usual, written for this week's COW-T M2!

Aziraphale is pouting. He's always pouting these days, for some thing or another. They're sitting outside a café, spring in Madrid as lovely as ever, tummy still full of paella and Viña Sastre, nevertheless he's pouting, playing with his empty cup of coffee. The clink of the spoon against the porcelain is driving Crowley mad.

“What's troubling you, Zachary?”, she finally asks, trying to keep her tone silky and patient.

“Nothing, ma'am,” he replies, petulant, his chin on the palm of his hand, eyes still fixed on a man three tables away.

“We both know that's not true, darling.” She caresses his wrist, soothing little circles on the inside of it. Aziraphale let her, huffing and puffing. “C'mon, let it all out.”

“It's just – he has that china set I wanted so much but you didn't buy me!”, he whines at last, banging on the table with an open palm. Crowley is slightly taken aback, and blinks twice.

“What?”

“That marvellous set I saw yesterday in that lovely shop in Calle de Serrano! The one with all those dainty little flowers around the rim!” he goes on, without trying to lower his voice down, sure that no one will understand him, “He has it and I don't! And I really want it, and I know he will not treat it right, but I would!”

“How – how can you not treat right a couple of teacups?”, Crowley dares to ask, confused – but not surprised – by his outburst of rage.

Aziraphale lets out an outraged sound, as if Crowley had suggested eating pasta without a fork. “First of all it's not just a couple of teacups! There are six, everyone with a different design and its different saucer, and there's a matching teapot -”

“You own, like, five teapots, Zachary. Not to mention your endless collection of cups.”

“But nothing like that! Oh, ma'am, I want it so much, it's not fair!”

Crowley sighs, keeping on tracing the veins of his wrist, his arm, climbing to the crook of his arm. He's wearing a light blue shirt and an elegant wristwatch, nothing too expensive-looking, that Crowley has found in an antique shop a day before their trip. With his hair ruffled he looks like a man in his thirty. (Crowley thinks there's a small miracle involved, for the sake of their game.)

She clicks her tongue; the only thing she has ever wanted is to spoil her angel rotten, bury him in earthly possessions to his heart's content. But right now she puts on her stern face, her less malleable voice.

“I recall we didn't buy it because of its scandalous price, dear. I'm not made of money, you know.”

“Yes, but...” He pouts harder, sticking out his lower lip. “I want it so bad, I'm sure you can bargain with that horrible man, you always make such compelling arguments...”

“Wouldn't it be easier to try to convince me to buy it at the shop?”

“It's not the same, we have to rescue that set! Oh, please, pretty pretty please, ma'am, would you do it for me? It would make _so happy_...”

He licks the last words, batting his eyelashes, the perfect picture of a queen's only child. He doesn't have to use any weapon other than that, because he knows, in every scenario, that he has Crowley wrapped around his little finger. She smiles, defeated but happy about it, and kisses his cheek, an affectionate peck.

“How could I say no to such a polite request? Be right back, darling.”

Aziraphale leans back on his chair, satisfied. He observes his wife (his sugar mommy, he corrects himself, a shiver down his spine) talking through the bargain, then snapping her fingers behind her back, and now – surprise! She's coming back with a heavy bag. Aziraphale gasps, bursting with joy.

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much! I promise I won't ask for anything for the rest of the holiday!”

Crowley huffs, trying to look severe. “We both know this is very far from the truth, Zachary.”

He pouts again, but it doesn't last, as he is sincerely happy with his gift. He smiles, open and relaxed like a summer breeze. He carefully places the box at his feet, starts to play with Crowley's fingers, caressing her ring. “We should get back to the hotel, otherwise I'd be afraid to break something...”, he says, voice low and soothing. He's exposing his belly to be stroked, like a pampered cat.

“Of course, Zachary.”

Aziraphale is the first to stand up, and offers his arm to her. She takes it with a pleased smile.

The Bentley is parked a few streets away, in a shaded alley away from the traffic. Aziraphale loves the click of Crowley's heels, how she's taller than him, her long legs exposed by the knee-length skirt; he loves showing her off, and Crowley is aware of that, and puts a lot of effort in her appearance when they're out like this, like a perfectly average couple – even if the man is noticeable younger than the woman. There are a few curious gazes, and she plots, for their next game, to miracle her body to resemble a barely legal girl. Or boy, depending on her mood that day. Or neither this or that – humans are so easily confused, it's so funny.

Crowley opens the passenger's door, and Aziraphale acts all flustered like a debutante. She snaps her fingers again before entering the car, stopping time. The game is on, she thinks, something tingling down her thighs.

“Aren't you the most spoiled little brat in existence, Zachary?”, she says, taking off her sunglasses, voice saccharine and gentle wrinkles around her full-gold eyes. Aziraphale leans comfortably against the seat, wiggling a little.

“Oh, well, it's because there's always someone willing to spoil me,” he replies, coquettish, fingers intertwined on his belly. He's still chubby, soft, and Crowley wants to squeeze every inch of smooth skin. He takes such good care of his body, he always smells so nice. Her lovely, fussy angel, who always looks for the last, most luxurious shampoo, the most expensive bars of soap. She thinks that, after the game has come to an end, she will bathe him, run her fingers through his hair, cover him in pink bubbles that smell of cotton candy. Oh, that's a marvellous idea. She kisses his neck, making him whimper. He's so sensitive.

“Isn't that right, honey?” She tickles him with her laugh, and Aziraphale bites his lips, looks at her under his eyelashes. And how can Crowley resist? He could ask for a dodo, a sabre-toothed tiger, and she would give them to him with a bow on their heads. Keeping an hand under his chin, she sweetly kisses him again, leaning toward him. She licks his lips, his mouth.

“Pretty little thing like you, Zachary,” she purrs against his ear, breath minty and hot, “ought to know how to show his gratitude. I can hardly take just a thank you, after all the money I have spent on you. I'm not being unreasonable, am I?”

Aziraphale shivers, eyelids slightly closed, fluttering. The sounds of her kisses are loud, sticky, and they leave bright red lipstick marks – but she's careful not to stain his shirt.“No, ma'am...”, his voice melting like an ice cream down the cone, “Oh – oh, I can eat you out, if you -”

“Oh no, boy, today I think I want you on all fours, and I want to fuck that deliciously plump arse of yours. And we can take care of that pretty cunt of yours, too, don't you agree?”

_Oh_. This is unexpected, and it has caught even Crowley by surprise. They haven't discussed it beforehand. Aziraphale blinks, blushes up to his ears, and stammers a little. “I – I -”

Crowley, worried, squeezes his hand twice, never breaking eye contact. _Is everything all right, angel?_

_Right as rain, sweetheart_ , he squeezes back, and Crowley smiles, holding his chin up. She strokes his lips with her thumb, her own lips barely an inch from his mouth. “I think I'm being quite reasonable, aren't I, darling boy?”

“Yes, ma'am, you are,” he gulps, suddenly shy, as if hasn't straddled Crowley's lap as he was riding him under a tree in Central Park.

“Well, then, chop chop. On the backseat, on your knees, arse up, there's a dear.”

He scrambles to obey, quick and submissive. Comfortable on the black leather, Aziraphale arches his back, cheek pressed against the seat. It feels open, vulnerable, bent like this – but he loves it, because he's with Crowley, and he knows he's safe. He confessed it once to Crowley, while kissing him, making his demon almost burst into tears.

She's behind him, a hand already sneaking under his shirt, searching for his nipples. She trails a nail over one of them, scratching lightly; Aziraphale whimpers, his breath wet on the leather. His wrists are crossed on his back, as he knows Crowley wants him in this kind of scene. Such an obedient husband, her heart sings. She kisses his nape, his hair.

“You're so pretty when you call me ma'am, such a polite boy I have...”, she whispers, unzipping his trousers, lowering them with his pants. Aziraphale feels her clothed erection pressed against his thigh, and slowly begins to grind against it, as the eager boy he is in this moment. Crowley tuts, giving his arse a light smack.

“Did I say you could do that, Zachary?”

“No – no, ma'am, you didn't, I'm sorry...”

“Then I should punish you, shouldn't I?”

“No, ma'am, please -”

“Are you arguing with me, boy?”

He makes a big scene of gulping and shivering, of being against the punishment, when he's actually wiggling in anticipation. “No, ma'am, I'm not, I'm sorry...”

The first spank is always a shock, makes his cheeks giggle; his moans are always surprised, as if his body was being touched that roughly for the first time. She spanks the centre of his arse, and with each slap Aziraphale moves towards her and her relentless hand.

“Oh, ma'am, please, it's too much!” he whines like a princess. Crowley scoffs, a crueller slap on his left cheek that cuts his breath.

“Quiet, boy, I don't want to hear anything from you but a thank you. I'm correcting your rotten attitude, you should be grateful. Aren't you grateful, darling?”

Aziraphale's hands are now under his head, wriggling and trying to get hold of the leather under him. “Yes, ma'am, thank you ma'am...”

“That's better.”

Aziraphale's bottom is nice and deep pink, warm under her touch; but pink doesn't suit him enough, never had, so she spanks him until a full red has bloomed on the skin. She kisses the welts she left, pressing her tongue on those she's sure will bruise tomorrow. “Oh!”, groans Aziraphale, daring to have some tears dancing on his eyelashes. He's so charmingly dramatic.

“Here we are, there's my precious and obedient boy... are you going to listen now? Do just what I say you to do?”

He nods, body still against his will. She knows how hard he's trying not to move, and she utterly adores him for that.

“Then open up for me, darling, show me your pretty arsehole, and then prepare yourself for me. Two fingers, please, you're horny enough to take them.”

He obeys, of course he obeys, thighs trembling and breath sharpened. His cunt is wet, almost dripping, and he hates that Crowley hasn't even barely touched it yet. He sticks his bottom out even more, fingers in and out at a rapid speed, he's so hungry the world around him is an angry purple, full of sparkling electricity.

“Ma'am?” he asks, voice shy as a bird, when he suddenly realizes that Crowley isn't touching him anymore. He doesn't dare to look at her; his skin is starting to feel sticky against the black leather, but he doesn't dare say anything.

“Ask for it, darling,” she says, coolly, almost detached.

“Oh, but I -”

“If you can't ask you don't really want it. Let us hear you, lovely, you're so pretty when you beg.”

He closes his eyes shut, feeling blessed, and does his best to conjure a shaking voice when he speaks again: “Could you fuck me, ma'am? I'm ready enough for you cock, please...”

“Very nice, I knew you had it in you. And since you asked so nicely...”

She slams easily in him, and starts fingering his cunt, and Aziraphale is completely overwhelmed, too full to function properly. Crowley still has her skirt and shirt on, even the pantyhose, as she knows what this kind of contrast does to her husband, being naked and vulnerable next to a fully clothed demon. She pushes and pushes, trying to hold him in place with just a hand, looking for his point of no return. It's not easy, moving her crotch and fingers at the same time, but Aziraphale is letting out the most arousing moans and gasps and shattered cries, and she's moved by how delectable he is. She kisses him on the nape, bites the curve of his shoulder.

“Like this, precious boy, like this, let it all out, let all of Madrid hear you...”

And he cries harder as he comes, making the Bentley tremble, leaving her hand almost soaked. She now grips his arse with both hands, keeping on fucking him through her own orgasm.

He's now pliant and content, little huffs of pleasure around his head like metaphorical glowing hearts. Crowley kisses his hair again, his ears. “Are you alright, angel? Wasn't it too much?”

“Oh, my dear, it was perfect. I would say heavenly, if I were an human who doesn't know how terrifying heaven actually is.”

Crowley laughs softly. She takes him in his arms, lets him snuggle under her chin. Kisses land on his forehead, on his flaming cheeks, on his wrists – reverent kisses, rounded as a poem.

“I love you dearly, Crowley, my beloved,” he sighs, voice light as helium. She tightens her grip around him, slightly flustered. Somehow it's still hard for her to say it back. Words are heavy and she's still weak against them.

“I still don't understand how this is a role play, as if I'm not always yours to command.”

“Yes, but you're not usually this stern.” He sounds smug, and she pinches his arm.

“I should have whipped your bratty arse, that'd have shown you stern.”

“Oh, is that a promise, my love?”, he asks with too much enthusiasm. She pinches his arse, making him yelp.

“You're not ready to be whipped, angel.”

“Oh, but we can always try to build my resistance up, can't we darling?”

“Yes, of course, try asking me again for one of your trinkets.”

He straightens his back, eyes glowing. “You know, I was just thinking about that pretty dove statuette I saw the other day...”


End file.
